The Season of Science

Bees bothered by absence,
violin-hunger
for pollen to fill their days,
fields full of van Gogh,
golden glows and sun fire
of the katsura, the quick spread
of spice over lawns, wild
like the William Tell Overture–

wait. Hear me out: this is suppose to be
about blooms and the season of amore.

More what?
No, I meant–
here, let me try to explain.

But she is dressing,
and it is difficult to express
postulates and proposals
to pearls and powders,
to a bra and blouse, to the berry pit
of her tongue.

Look: the cold of night shadows
the countryside, bees far from the hive
will cease their search–

what? Listen. I didn’t mention drones, dear.
No, I didn’t know they only had one purpose.
I think we’re getting off track here–
no one knows why the life expectancy of drones
is 90 days. Oh,
that’s rhetorical.

Alright, forget the fucking bees! Let me try again:
a field with interaction has a magnetic moment–
that’s the science of electrons.
From a distance, an entity feels the force of another–
that’s the science for particles.
These moments do not need
to be temporary; we can be more
than a flyleaf on a book of nameless poems,
more than motel meetings and phone calls
that sound like a lute.
Do you understand? The season of science
is like everything that moves,
and sooner or later, will change,
changes, changed.

ii. Ode to Jasmine

The horizon’s hem
retreats, and a little light splits
between the curtains.
The night jasmines the room.

Between the double beds,
I left a bottle of cheap Chilean Merlot,
thick bread sticks still in the box, cold,
and an unopened gift in blue wrap.

The radio crackles between stations,
half-plays static and the heavy notes
of Schubert, slow and haunting–
you heard it if you know such seasons.

I lean in to swing shut the door and pause
to remind me of this ode
and the comma I changed
to a perfect period.

October 2018 Winners

First Place

The Emails Go Unanswered
by Lois P. JonesPenShells

Second Place

Hidden Room
by F.H. LeeThe Write Idea

Third Place

The Penitent
by Ken AshworthThe Writer's Block

Honorable Mention

You Can Call Me a Tough Cookie, But It Really Doesn’t Matter
by Midnight MoonWild Poetry Forum